полная версия
Procter Adelaide Anne
Legends and Lyrics. Part 1
VERSE: THE ANGEL OF DEATH
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
How many a tranquil soul has passed away,
Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim,
To the eternal splendour of the day;
And many a troubled heart still calls for him.
Spirits too tender for the battle here
Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms;
And children, shuddering at a world so drear,
Have smiling passed away into his arms.
He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain,
Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart:
Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain,
And bid the shadow of earth’s grief depart.
He will give back what neither time, nor might,
Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore.
(Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,)
He will give back those who are gone before.
Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,
And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
VERSE: A DREAM
All yesterday I was spinning,
Sitting alone in the sun;
And the dream that I spun was so lengthy,
It lasted till day was done.
I heeded not cloud or shadow
That flitted over the hill,
Or the humming-bees, or the swallows,
Or the trickling of the rill.
I took the threads for my spinning,
All of blue summer air,
And a flickering ray of sunlight
Was woven in here and there.
The shadows grew longer and longer,
The evening wind passed by,
And the purple splendour of sunset
Was flooding the western sky.
But I could not leave my spinning,
For so fair my dream had grown.
I heeded not, hour by hour,
How the silent day had flown.
At last the grey shadows fell round me,
And the night came dark and chill,
And I rose and ran down the valley,
And left it all on the hill.
I went up the hill this morning
To the place where my spinning lay —
There was nothing but glistening dewdrops
Remained of my dream to-day.
VERSE: THE PRESENT
Do not crouch to-day, and worship
The old Past, whose life is fled,
Hush your voice to tender reverence;
Crowned he lies, but cold and dead:
For the Present reigns our monarch,
With an added weight of hours;
Honour her, for she is mighty!
Honour her, for she is ours!
See the shadows of his heroes
Girt around her cloudy throne;
Every day the ranks are strengthened
By great hearts to him unknown;
Noble things the great Past promised,
Holy dreams, both strange and new;
But the Present shall fulfil them,
What he promised, she shall do.
She inherits all his treasures,
She is heir to all his fame,
And the light that lightens round her
Is the lustre of his name;
She is wise with all his wisdom,
Living on his grave she stands,
On her brow she bears his laurels,
And his harvest in her hands.
Coward, can she reign and conquer
If we thus her glory dim?
Let us fight for her as nobly
As our fathers fought for him.
God, who crowns the dying ages,
Bids her rule, and us obey —
Bids us cast our lives before her,
Bids us serve the great To-day.
VERSE: CHANGES
Mourn, O rejoicing heart!
The hours are flying;
Each one some treasure takes,
Each one some blossom breaks,
And leaves it dying;
The chill dark night draws near,
Thy sun will soon depart,
And leave thee sighing;
Then mourn, rejoicing heart,
The hours are flying!
Rejoice, O grieving heart!
The hours fly fast;
With each some sorrow dies,
With each some shadow flies,
Until at last
The red dawn in the east
Bids weary night depart,
And pain is past.
Rejoice then, grieving heart,
The hours fly fast!
VERSE: STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY
Strive; yet I do not promise
The prize you dream of to-day
Will not fade when you think to grasp it,
And melt in your hand away;
But another and holier treasure,
You would now perchance disdain,
Will come when your toil is over,
And pay you for all your pain.
Wait; yet I do not tell you
The hour you long for now,
Will not come with its radiance vanished,
And a shadow upon its brow;
Yet far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight.
Pray; though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears,
May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not that you long for,
But diviner, will come one day,
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.
VERSE: A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER
Moan, oh ye Autumn Winds!
Summer has fled,
The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die;
The Lily’s gracious head
All low must lie,
Because the gentle Summer now is dead.
Grieve, oh ye Autumn Winds!
Summer lies low;
The rose’s trembling leaves will soon be shed,
For she that loved her so,
Alas, is dead!
And one by one her loving children go.
Wail, oh ye Autumn Winds!
She lives no more,
The gentle Summer, with her balmy breath,
Still sweeter than before
When nearer death,
And brighter every day the smile she wore!
Mourn, mourn, oh Autumn Winds,
Lament and mourn;
How many half-blown buds must close and die;
Hopes with the Summer born
All faded lie,
And leave us desolate and Earth forlorn!
VERSE: THE UNKNOWN GRAVE
No name to bid us know
Who rests below,
No word of death or birth,
Only the grass’s wave,
Over a mound of earth,
Over a nameless grave.
Did this poor wandering heart
In pain depart?
Longing, but all too late,
For the calm home again,
Where patient watchers wait,
And still will wait in vain.
Did mourners come in scorn,
And thus forlorn,
Leave him, with grief and shame.
To silence and decay,
And hide the tarnished name
Of the unconscious clay?
It may be from his side
His loved ones died,
And last of some bright band,
(Together now once more,)
He sought his home, the land
Where they had gone before.
No matter – limes have made
As cool a shade,
And lingering breezes pass
As tenderly and slow,
As if beneath the grass
A monarch slept below.
No grief, though loud and deep,
Could stir that sleep;
And earth and heaven tell
Of rest that shall not cease,
Where the cold world’s farewell
Fades into endless peace.
VERSE: GIVE ME THY HEART
With echoing steps the worshippers
Departed one by one;
The organ’s pealing voice was stilled,
The vesper hymn was done;
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air,
One lamp alone with trembling ray,
Told of the Presence there!
In the dark church she knelt alone;
Her tears were falling fast;
“Help, Lord,” she cried, “the shades of death
Upon my soul are cast!
Have I not shunned the path of sin,
And chosen the better part?”
What voice came through the sacred air? —
“My child, give me thy Heart!”
“Have I not laid before Thy shrine
My wealth, oh Lord?” she cried;
“Have I kept aught of gems or gold,
To minister to pride?
Have I not bade youth’s joys retire,
And vain delights depart?” —
But sad and tender was the voice —
“My child, give me thy Heart!”
“Have I not, Lord, gone day by day
Where Thy poor children dwell;
And carried help, and gold, and food?
Oh Lord, Thou knowest it well!
From many a house, from many a soul,
My hand bids care depart:” —
More sad, more tender, was the voice —
“My child, give me thy Heart!”
“Have I not worn my strength away
With fast and penance sore?
Have I not watched and wept?” she cried;
“Did Thy dear Saints do more?
Have I not gained Thy grace, oh Lord,
And won in Heaven my part?” —
It echoed louder in her soul —
“My child, give me thy Heart!”
“For I have loved thee with a love
No mortal heart can show;
A love so deep, my Saints in heaven
Its depths can never know:
When pierced and wounded on the Cross,
Man’s sin and doom were mine,
I loved thee with undying love,
Immortal and divine!
“I love thee ere the skies were spread;
My soul bears all thy pains;
To gain thy love my sacred Heart
In earthly shrines remains:
Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,
Without one gift divine,
Give it, my child, thy Heart to me,
And it shall rest in mine!”
In awe she listened, and the shade
Passed from her soul away;
In low and trembling voice she cried —
“Lord, help me to obey!
Break Thou the chains of earth, oh Lord,
That bind and hold my heart;
Let it be Thine, and Thine alone,
Let none with Thee have part.
“Send down, oh Lord, Thy sacred fire!
Consume and cleanse the sin
That lingers still within its depths:
Let heavenly love begin.
That sacred flame Thy Saints have known,
Kindle, oh Lord, in me,
Thou above all the rest for ever,
And all the rest in Thee.”
The blessing fell upon her soul;
Her angel by her side
Knew that the hour of peace was come;
Her soul was purified:
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air —
But Peace went with her as she left
The sacred Presence there!
VERSE: THE WAYSIDE INN
A little past the village
The Inn stood, low and white;
Green shady trees behind it,
And an orchard on the right;
Where over the green paling
The red-cheeked apples hung,
As if to watch how wearily
The sign-board creaked and swung.
The heavy-laden branches,
Over the road hung low,
Reflected fruit or blossom
From the wayside well below;
Where children, drawing water,
Looked up and paused to see,
Amid the apple-branches,
A purple Judas Tree.
The road stretched winding onward
For many a weary mile —
So dusty foot-sore wanderers
Would pause and rest awhile;
And panting horses halted,
And travellers loved to tell
The quiet of the wayside inn,
The orchard, and the well.
Here Maurice dwelt; and often
The sunburnt boy would stand
Gazing upon the distance,
And shading with his hand
His eyes, while watching vainly
For travellers, who might need
His aid to loose the bridle,
And tend the weary steed.
And once (the boy remembered
That morning, many a day —
The dew lay on the hawthorn,
The bird sang on the spray)
A train of horsemen, nobler
Than he had seen before,
Up from the distance galloped,
And halted at the door.
Upon a milk-white pony,
Fit for a faery queen,
Was the loveliest little damsel
His eyes had ever seen:
A serving-man was holding
The leading rein, to guide
The pony and its mistress,
Who cantered by his side.
Her sunny ringlets round her
A golden cloud had made,
While her large hat was keeping
Her calm blue eyes in shade;
One hand held fast the silken reins
To keep her steed in check,
The other pulled his tangled mane,
Or stroked his glossy neck.
And as the boy brought water,
And loosed the rein, he heard
The sweetest voice that thanked him
In one low gentle word;
She turned her blue eyes from him,
Looked up, and smiled to see
The hanging purple blossoms
Upon the Judas Tree;
And showed it with a gesture,
Half pleading, half command,
Till he broke the fairest blossom,
And laid it in her hand;
And she tied it to her saddle
With a ribbon from her hair,
While her happy laugh rang gaily,
Like silver on the air.
But the champing steeds were rested —
The horsemen now spurred on,
And down the dusty highway
They vanished and were gone.
Years passed, and many a traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the little milk-white pony
And the child returned no more.
Years passed, the apple-branches
A deeper shadow shed;
And many a time the Judas Tree,
Blossom and leaf, lay dead;
When on the loitering western breeze
Came the bells’ merry sound,
And flowery arches rose, and flags
And banners waved around.
Maurice stood there expectant:
The bridal train would stay
Some moments at the inn-door,
The eager watchers say;
They come – the cloud of dust draws near —
’Mid all the state and pride,
He only sees the golden hair
And blue eyes of the bride.
The same, yet, ah, still fairer;
He knew the face once more
That bent above the pony’s neck
Years past at that inn-door:
Her shy and smiling eyes looked round,
Unconscious of the place,
Unconscious of the eager gaze
He fixed upon her face.
He plucked a blossom from the tree —
The Judas Tree – and cast
Its purple fragrance towards the Bride,
A message from the Past.
The signal came, the horses plunged —
Once more she smiled around:
The purple blossom in the dust
Lay trampled on the ground.
Again the slow years fleeted,
Their passage only known
By the height the Passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the bride, so fair and blooming,
The bride returned no more.
One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the branches bare,
Rustling and waving dimly
In the grey and misty air,
Saw blazoned on a carriage
Once more the well-known shield,
The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Upon a silver field.
He looked – was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad,
The child, once young and smiling,
The bride, once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes’ radiance,
And paled those trembling lips?
What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain,
Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the dismal rain,
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks, yet does not see)
The dead and leafless branches
Upon the Judas Tree.
The slow dark months crept onward
Upon their icy way,
’Till April broke in showers
And Spring smiled forth in May;
Upon the apple-blossoms
The sun shone bright again,
When slowly up the highway
Came a long funeral train.
The bells toiled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled;
Slowly, in pomp and honour,
They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger
One rode, who held a shield,
Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Shone on a silver field.
’Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest,
Perhaps an honest sorrow
Dwelt only in one breast.
One by the inn-door standing
Watched with fast-dropping tears
The long procession passing,
And thought of bygone years,
The boyish, silent homage
To child and bride unknown,
The pitying tender sorrow
Kept in his heart alone,
Now laid upon the coffin
With a purple flower, might be
Told to the cold dead sleeper;
The rest could only see
A fragrant purple blossom,
Plucked from a Judas Tree.
VERSE: VOICES OF THE PAST
You wonder that my tears should flow
In listening to that simple strain;
That those unskilful sounds should fill
My soul with joy and pain —
How can you tell what thoughts it stirs
Within my heart again?
You wonder why that common phrase,
So all unmeaning to your ear,
Should stay me in my merriest mood,
And thrill my soul to hear —
How can you tell what ancient charm
Has made me hold it dear?
You marvel that I turn away
From all those flowers so fair and bright,
And gaze at this poor herb, till tears
Arise and dim my sight —
You cannot tell how every leaf
Breathes of a past delight.
You smile to see me turn and speak
With one whose converse you despise;
You do not see the dreams of old
That with his voice arise —
How can you tell what links have made
Him sacred in my eyes?
Oh, these are Voices of the Past,
Links of a broken chain,
Wings that can bear me back to Times
Which cannot come again —
Yet God forbid that I should lose
The echoes that remain!
VERSE: THE DARK SIDE
Thou hast done well, perhaps,
To lift the bright disguise,
And lay the bitter truth
Before our shrinking eyes;
When evil crawls below
What seems so pure and fair,
Thine eyes are keen and true
To find the serpent there:
And yet – I turn away;
Thy task is not divine —
The evil angels look
On earth with eyes like thine.
Thou hast done well, perhaps,
To show how closely wound
Dark threads of sin and self
With our best deeds are found.
How great and noble hearts,
Striving for lofty aims,
Have still some earthly cord
A meaner spirit claims;
And yet – although thy task
Is well and fairly done,
Methinks for such as thou
There is a holier one.
Shadows there are, who dwell
Among us, yet apart,
Deaf to the claim of God,
Or kindly human heart;
Voices of earth and heaven
Call, but they turn away,
And Love, through such black night,
Can see no hope of day;
And yet – our eyes are dim,
And thine are keener far —
Then gaze till thou canst see
The glimmer of some star.
The black stream flows along,
Whose waters we despise —
Show us reflected there
Some fragment of the skies;
’Neath tangled thorns and briars,
(The task is fit for thee,)
Seek for the hidden flowers,
We are too blind to see;
Then will I thy great gift
A crown and blessing call;
Angels look thus on men,
And God sees good in all!
VERSE: A FIRST SORROW
Arise! this day shall shine,
For evermore,
To thee a star divine,
On Time’s dark shore.
Till now thy soul has been
All glad and gay:
Bid it awake, and look
At grief to-day!
No shade has come between
Thee and the sun;
Like some long childish dream
Thy life has run:
But now the stream has reached
A dark, deep sea,
And Sorrow, dim and crowned,
Is waiting thee.
Each of God’s soldiers bears
A sword divine:
Stretch out thy trembling hands
To-day for thine!
To each anointed Priest
God’s summons came:
Oh, Soul, he speaks to-day
And calls thy name.
Then, with slow reverent step,
And beating heart,
From out thy joyous days,
Thou must depart.
And, leaving all behind,
Come forth, alone,
To join the chosen band
Around the throne.
Raise up thine eyes – be strong,
Nor cast away
The crown, that God has given
Thy soul to-day!
VERSE: MURMURS
Why wilt thou make bright music
Give forth a sound of pain?
Why wilt thou weave fair flowers
Into a weary chain?
Why turn each cool grey shadow
Into a world of fears?
Why say the winds are wailing?
Why call the dewdrops tears?
The voices of happy nature,
And the Heaven’s sunny gleam,
Reprove thy sick heart’s fancies,
Upbraid thy foolish dream.
Listen, and I will tell thee
The song Creation sings,
From the humming of bees in the heather,
To the flutter of angels’ wings.
An echo rings for ever,
The sound can never cease;
It speaks to God of glory,
It speaks to Earth of peace.
Not alone did angels sing it
To the poor shepherds’ ear;
But the spherèd Heavens chant it,
While listening ages hear.
Above thy peevish wailing
Rises that holy song;
Above Earth’s foolish clamour,
Above the voice of wrong.
No creature of God’s too lowly
To murmur peace and praise:
When the starry nights grow silent,
Then speak the sunny days.
So leave thy sick heart’s fancies,
And lend thy little voice
To the silver song of glory
That bids the world rejoice.
VERSE: GIVE
See the rivers flowing
Downwards to the sea,
Pouring all their treasures
Bountiful and free —
Yet to help their giving
Hidden springs arise;
Or, if need be, showers
Feed them from the skies!
Watch the princely flowers
Their rich fragrance spread,
Load the air with perfumes,
From their beauty shed —
Yet their lavish spending
Leaves them not in dearth,
With fresh life replenished
By their mother earth!
Give thy heart’s best treasures —
From fair Nature learn;
Give thy love – and ask not,
Wait not a return!
And the more thou spendest
From thy little store,
With a double bounty,
God will give thee more.
VERSE: MY JOURNAL
It is a dreary evening;
The shadows rise and fall:
With strange and ghostly changes,
They flicker on the wall.
Make the charred logs burn brighter;
I will show you, by their blaze,
The half-forgotten record
Of bygone things and days.
Bring here the ancient volume;
The clasp is old and worn,
The gold is dim and tarnished,
And the faded leaves are torn.
The dust has gathered on it —
There are so few who care
To read what Time has written
Of joy and sorrow there.
Look at the first fair pages;
Yes – I remember all:
The joys now seem so trivial,
The griefs so poor and small.
Let us read the dreams of glory
That childish fancy made;
Turn to the next few pages,
And see how soon they fade.
Here, where still waiting, dreaming,
For some ideal Life,
The young heart all unconscious
Had entered on the strife.
See how this page is blotted:
What – could those tears be mine?
How coolly I can read you,
Each blurred and trembling line.
Now I can reason calmly,
And, looking back again,
Can see divinest meaning
Threading each separate pain.
Here strong resolve – how broken;
Rash hope, and foolish fear,
And prayers, which God in pity
Refused to grant or hear.
Nay – I will turn the pages
To where the tale is told
Of how a dawn diviner
Flushed the dark clouds with gold.
And see, that light has gilded
The story – nor shall set;
And, though in mist and shadow,
You know I see it yet.
Here – well, it does not matter,
I promised to read all;
I know not why I falter,
Or why my tears should fall;
You see each grief is noted;
Yet it was better so —
I can rejoice to-day – the pain
Was over, long ago.
I read – my voice is failing,
But you can understand
How the heart beat that guided
This weak and trembling hand.
Pass over that long struggle,
Read where the comfort came,
Where the first time is written
Within the book your name.
Again it comes, and oftener,
Linked, as it now must be,
With all the joy or sorrow
That Life may bring to me.
So all the rest – you know it:
Now shut the clasp again,
And put aside the record
Of bygone hours of pain.
The dust shall gather on it,
I will not read it more:
Give me your hand – what was it
We were talking of before?
I know not why – but tell me
Of something gay and bright.
It is strange – my heart is heavy,
And my eyes are dim to-night.
